Night settled slowly over the frozen lands beyond the Wall. The sky stretched wide and empty above the endless snowfields, scattered with stars that burned cold and distant. The wind moved gently through the pine forests, carrying the smell of frost and woodsmoke across the valley.
At the center of the Free Folk camp, several fires burned brightly against the darkness. Hunters returned from the day's work with reindeer and elk, their laughter echoing across the snow as they dropped their catches near the flames.
Life beyond the Wall was simple. Hunt. Eat. Survive. And on nights like this, when the wind was calm and the fires were warm, the Free Folk told stories.
Jon Snow sat beside one of the larger fires with Tormund Giantsbane and several hunters. The flames crackled softly while strips of meat roasted over iron spits. Sparks rose into the cold air and vanished among the stars.
Tormund tore a piece of roasted venison from the spit and handed it to Jon.
"You look like a man who forgot how to eat."
Jon accepted the meat.
"I'm eating."
"You're staring at the fire."
"That too."
Tormund grunted and sat beside him.
Around the fire, several Free Folk passed wooden cups filled with strong fermented milk. One of the younger hunters had begun telling a story about a mammoth he claimed to have chased across three valleys.
Jon listened quietly, but his mind wandered.
The rumors had reached even this far north.
Dragons.
Sailors spoke of a shadow crossing the sky above the Narrow Sea.
Most of the Free Folk laughed at the stories.
But Jon could not.
Across the fire, a grey-haired hunter named Styr Wolf-Eye leaned forward and spat into the snow.
"I heard the story again today," he said.
"What story?" one of the younger hunters asked.
"The dragon."
The word passed around the fire like a spark.
Some men chuckled. Others frowned.
Tormund rolled his eyes.
"Every winter, someone claims to see a dragon."
Styr shrugged.
"This one comes from the south."
"Everything comes from the south," Tormund replied. "Trouble especially."
The hunters laughed.
But Styr continued.
"A trader from Hardhome swore he heard sailors speaking of it."
Jon lifted his gaze slightly.
"What did they say?"
Styr scratched his beard.
"They say a black dragon flies near the Smoking Sea."
The fire popped loudly.
A younger hunter shook his head.
"Sailors drink too much."
"Perhaps," Styr said.
"But the stories grow."
Jon stared into the flames.
"What else did they say?"
Styr hesitated.
"They say the dragon does not fly alone."
The wind moved softly through the trees.
Tormund stopped chewing.
"What does that mean?"
Styr lowered his voice.
"They say a woman walks beneath its shadow."
Silence spread around the fire.
One of the hunters laughed nervously.
"Ghost stories."
"Maybe," Styr replied.
But Jon said nothing.
Because he remembered.
Silver hair.
Purple eyes.
Fire reflected in a queen's gaze.
He had watched her die.
Hadn't he?
Tormund glanced sideways at him.
"You look like you swallowed ice."
Jon exhaled slowly.
"Rumors grow larger each time they are told."
"Yes," Tormund said.
"But sometimes rumors start with truth."
The fire crackled between them.
A young boy from the camp suddenly ran toward the group.
"More travelers!"
Several hunters turned.
From the darkness beyond the campfires, two figures approached through the snow. Their cloaks were heavy with frost, and their faces hidden beneath thick hoods.
One of the guards stepped forward.
"Who comes?"
"Travelers," one of the strangers answered.
His voice sounded tired.
They approached the fire slowly and lowered their hoods.
Both men looked like sailors.
Salt still clung to their clothes.
Tormund narrowed his eyes.
"You're far from the sea."
"We came from Hardhome," the man replied.
Styr gestured toward the fire.
"Sit."
The sailors dropped onto a nearby log gratefully.
Jon studied them carefully.
"You sailed north?"
"Yes."
"From where?"
The sailor hesitated.
"Braavos."
The hunters exchanged glances.
Braavos was a long way from the frozen wilderness beyond the Wall.
"What brought you here?" Jon asked.
The sailor looked around the fire.
"Stories."
Tormund groaned.
"Seven hells."
The sailor ignored him.
"Every port in Essos speaks of the same thing."
"The dragon."
The firelight flickered across Jon's face.
"And what did you see?" he asked quietly.
The sailor swallowed.
"We did not see it."
"But others did."
He leaned closer to the fire.
"Ships near Valyria vanished."
"Others returned burned."
One of the hunters laughed.
"Ships burn all the time."
"Yes," the sailor said slowly.
"But not from above."
The fire crackled louder as the wind shifted.
Jon felt the weight of the words settle in his chest.
"Did anyone see the dragon clearly?" he asked.
The sailor nodded slowly.
"One captain swore it was Drogon."
The hunters fell silent again.
Because everyone in Westeros knew that name.
Tormund leaned forward.
"And the queen?"
The sailor hesitated.
"The captain claimed something else."
"What?"
The sailor looked toward Jon.
"He said the dragon circled something in the ruins."
Jon's voice dropped.
"What?"
The sailor whispered the answer.
"A woman."
The fire popped again.
No one spoke.
Because some stories should have died long ago.
Jon stared into the flames for a long moment.
Finally, Tormund spoke quietly.
"You're thinking about going south again."
Jon did not answer immediately.
But the firelight reflected in his eyes like distant dragonfire.
And somewhere far beyond the frozen horizon…
A dragon might still be flying.